


The Fixed Eyes of Strangers

by setissma



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setissma/pseuds/setissma
Summary: The first time he changes, Sirius understands why so few people have done this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Um, really old 2005-era ultra depressing fic?

**First**  
The first time he changes, Sirius understands why so few people have done this.

It's not, as he always imagined, that the magic is hard. Plenty of people would be willing to give two years of their time for this, the rapid shift from man to animal that leaves his heart racing, his blood hot. It's the way his thoughts change, in half-an-instant, with the sudden pull to the floor, four unsteady legs, paws too large.

He thinks, oh, and in the monochrome click of a moment, he changes.

He always thought, human mind, animal body, but in truth, the lines are much less distinct, like blurry morality or shaded ethics. He's still standing on the other side of his bed, between a too-close wall and mahogany posts that smell of the boys who have slept here before him, and wood, and people.

The dog goes under the bed where Sirius would have gone around the corner, through dust and old socks alike, and then, here, James, on his bed. Sirius would have known what he was reading, that the half-hostile curve of his spine means go away, but the dog only knows the subtler nuances of body language: the pressure of his hand against the spine of his text that means come here, the half-frown that needs licking away, the put together parts and pieces that make James, kind hands and warm heart and the anxious way he taps his fingers against his knee that means, to the dog, here, so he knows he is needed, knows that this boy is his.

Remus's sheets, as he creeps by his empty bed, make him want to stand guard and protect, but the pull of James is stronger, and he gathers four legs under him and jumps, a move the dog knows how to coordinate even if Sirius does not, and then there is James, and the hollow of his shoulder that smells just right, to a dog, sweat and soap and broomstick polish and fifteen, fingers to lick between, and James falls back, startled, and then begins to laugh. The dog is in rapture, in bliss, this, here, is the best feeling he knows of, will ever know of.

"Ought to have known what you'd be," James says, finally, and Padfoot rolls over, abject submission and sheer, unadulterated love, an uncomplicated emotion, better than being human, with sort of like a brother and the feeling in the pit of his stomach when he watches James undress for bed.

James reaches, fingers in fur, a sensation the dog both knows and doesn't know, a memory but not his memory, and the dog and Sirius both know that this is as close to perfect as it gets, better than touching girls or playing pranks or the slow, building joy of flying.

"I suppose you want me to rub your belly, then," James says, dryly, words the dog only half-understands, but he curves his spine in a wriggling arch of desire and pleasure and yours, and James does.

When they show Remus, a few months later, after Peter has caught up, he cries, shaking hands and helpless affection from the boy who thought he would never have any friends at all, let alone friends like these, and Padfoot nudges his knee with his nose and licks away his tears, but Sirius thinks, later, that maybe he wasn't doing this for Remus, after all, that it was for the dark, burning look of pride in James's eyes that he only sees twice, the first time and while he is watching Sirius change for Remus, and he doesn't have to see in color to know that this is all the reward he will ever get, and all the reward he will ever need.

**Second**  
He has come all this way, and somehow, can't bring himself to knock on the door. It shouldn't be hard, he thinks, just raise a hand and rap, curl your fingers around the knocker and let it fall, trigger the charms that sound the visitor's chime. Still, he is standing here, five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour, wet from the rain and slowly getting colder, with two potted geraniums and a loneliness so large he thinks it might push him off the steps.

He thinks, too, of all the things he might say, in explaination: that they locked away all his school things because half of them were red-and-gold, the hand-shaped bruise across Regulus's jaw after he spoke up to defend Sirius at dinner, the way his parents have taken to using his bedroom as storage for dark artifacts, that he misses the sun, and the only place he's seen it in a month and a half is the smallest corner of the attic, and he hates getting dust in his hair but it's almost worth it for the spots in the corners of his vision and the inexact shade of orange that's the sun through closed eyes.

In the end, when James opens the door, guided by the telepathy of friendship instead of a doorbell, he doesn't have to say anything at all.

James doesn't ask questions, even when they're both tangled in James's too-small bed, Sirius's feet off the edge, James's hands trying to settle someplace that isn't awkward, breath warm against the hollow of Sirius's throat.

"I ran away from home," Sirius says, finally, to the dark silence of James's ceiling, nonjudging, and the soft squeaks the bed makes as James squirms, elbow-knee-elbow.

"It's not running away from home if it's not your home," James says, reasonably, and, once he has found a comfortable spot, pressed against Sirius's side, one leg flung over Sirius's, promptly falls asleep with the ease of the untroubled.

If that's true, Sirius thinks, in the darkness, then he can never run away from Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts. The only thing he can run away from is James.

**Third**  
When it happens, they think of Remus and Snape, the victims, of James, the hero, and they're fussed over for hours, excused from classes the next day, but after McGonagall takes points from Gryffindor and assigns detentions in the infirmary until the end of term, and Dumbledore says in that voice that Sirius knows better than his own conscience, with a quiet tiredness Sirius has never seen before, _I had thought better of you, Mr. Black_ , they forget him.

He gets through classes on too little sleep, trying to do anything but think, counting in his head until he gets too tired to remember where he is and loses track, turning water to oil and back again, weeding around the beds of Devil's Snare, then dinner, then detention, washing all seven hundred and thirty-two panes of glass in the picture window of the hospital wing. Remus stays turned away, pretending to read so he doesn't have to look at him, and Snape stays asleep, the slow, even in-out of his breathing remarkably like guilt.

James is in his bed when he goes to crawl in, too tired even for homework, a lump beneath the covers that Sirius doesn't notice until it's too late, and this, he thinks, almost hysterically, is the universe's revenge for years of not having made his bed, and this is what James's mother meant, when she said it would catch up to him.

When their eyes meet, he doesn't know what to say, can't remember how to breathe, and James looks at him for one, long sleepy moment and says, finally, "Are you okay?"

Sirius's hands are where he left them, pulling down the blankets, so it's James who touches his face, whose fingers come away wet. "Hush," he says, pulling him down, Sirius's face against the faded wool of his jumper, and Sirius breaks, then, "it's all right," and Sirius comes apart.

**Fourth**  
On the train, seventh year, at Christmas, they are the only people in their compartment. Too many children dead, too many kept home, as if ignorance will protect them. Remus stays - it's a full moon, this year, but James's parents want him home, and Sirius with, so Peter will look after their werewolf.

James is playing with a snitch, old habit from an arrogant childhood best forgotten, and Sirius watches his hands instead of the scenery, almost against his shoulder, James's elbow to his stomach, warm through four wool jumpers.

"I'm thinking," James says, almost conversationally, "of asking her to marry me."

The snitch flutters around his fingers, Sirius thinks, like a heartbeat, maybe, and he says, before he can think to stop it, "No."

There is a long pause, and James catches it, again, slides it into his pocket. "It was always you," he says, finally, as if he's speaking to someone else instead of Sirius, invisible but present, "but I couldn't wait forever."

I was there all along, Sirius thinks, and says nothing at all, until James turns, to look at him, eyes dark and bright, like everything Sirius has ever loved. "Half a minute longer, then," he says, because that's how long it takes them to lean in and kiss, his fingers against James's collar, James's hands on his knees.

James's mouth against his is warm, his pulse strong against Sirius's hands. Their noses bump, and James's glasses get in the way, but it's everything Sirius has ever wanted, and right.

"Maybe I won't," James says, against his mouth, and Sirius knows that it's not true, in the end, because his parents have expectations and the war has made adults of them all and James Potter has never been capable of breaking Lily Evans's heart, even when nothing at all was at stake.

But it's all right, somehow, if someone else has his head and his home and him, because Sirius knows that he has James's heart, and in the end, given time, nothing else can compare.

Maybe, he allows himself the luxury of thinking after James falls asleep, later, head on Sirius's shoulder, fingers tangled together, when this is all over, we can be together.

Maybe, he thinks, we can love each other.

Maybe, he thinks, we can.

**Fifth**  
"Please," James says, face too tight, hands too warm, curled into the familiar heat of Sirius's body, "please can you keep this secret, for Harry?" and Sirius knows he has run out of time.


End file.
